


perpetration

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, TBH there's no plot here, Unreliable Narrator, and he cannot stand them, where jim and mycroft are just sherlock's boring married math nerd brother/in law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 03:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18379907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Sherlock’s brother is the boringest man in London. And James Moriarty is a snake.





	1. Chapter 1

John barely sets foot into his flat before getting a faceful of Coat - Sherlock’s Belstaff swings into his face as he throws the damn thing on and pushes past John into the hallway.

 

“Come on, John, we’re going to the bank,” he says, and John wonders _what the hell_ would have gone differently if he hadn’t come when he did. (Would he have called? Would he have proceeded as if John was still present, talking to no one?)

 

“What, now?” John asks instead. He has a carton of milk in hand, and he needs to put it in the fridge first. Then he remembers - “On a Sunday??”

 

.

 

It turns out that by “bank” Sherlock means a big financial firm that lost 5 million over the weekend.

 

Sherlock scrunches up in his chair as if it is the single most uncomfortable chair in the world (John think’s it’s actually quite nice, fit for this cushy corner office they’re in), and crosses his legs.

 

“Five million - cash?” he asks, sarcastic and skeptical.

 

The man they’re meeting - Sebastian Wilkes, some sort of bigshot vice president - laughs.

 

“Course not, Will, we don’t exactly leave that sort of thing lying around, we’re not a _bank,”_ Wilkes says.

 

“And _I_ am not an IT guy,” Sherlock says.

 

“Oh come on!” Wilkes says good naturedly with a big laugh. He glances at John too. “Read all about your exploits, you’re a regular sleuth. Who knew your party trick would turn into a career, huh?”

 

 _“Not_ a party trick.”

 

“Love the blog, John Watson, but seriously. How do you live with this guy? I barely lasted two months before I had to find a way to get a single room.”

 

John blinks, realizing, “wait you two _know_ each other?”

 

“Went to university together,” Wilkes tells him with a grin, as Sherlock just burrows further into his coat. “Is he still as awful to live with as ever? Used to make coffee with energy drinks instead of water, the kitchen commons was a wasteland - he’s a health hazard! Got banned from the student cafe too, for ordering 15-shot espresso drinks. Finally found him passed out in the living room one day, we all thought he was dead.”

 

John turns to give Sherlock a very long look.

 

“Anyway! The fact that someone got into the building after-hours is just up your alley isn’t it? One of those locked room mysteries?”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, but stands anyway.

 

“Show me the security tapes.”

 

.

 

Sherlock scans all the footage and the walks the length of the east-facing hall a few times, pokes his nose into various offices, and asks after a senior vice president who’d taken a day off.

 

Then he leaves the building with a big binder under his arm, and John hails a cab.

 

“Where are we going now?” John asks.

 

Sherlock makes a face.

 

“To get someone else to look at these numbers,” he says.

 

“To find the money,” John says.

 

“Yep,” Sherlock says, sounding as unhappy as anything. “I know a guy.”

 

“And he’s the _boringest_ man in London.”

 

.

 

This guy evidently has been doing pretty well for himself, John sees, as the cab takes them in front of rather a large and lovely home, with a pruned garden in front and a freshly painted front door.

 

And he has seldom seen Sherlock so sullen as when he rings the doorbell.

 

A moment later, the door opens, and a slight man with dark hair opens the door.

 

“Sherlock!” he says in a soft voice with an Irish accent. “What a lovely, lovely surprise, it’s so good to see you!”

 

He leans over to look at John past Sherlock.

 

“And Dr. John Watson! I know all about you.”

 

“Um, sorry?” John says. Highly disconcerting. “Nice to meet you too. I suppose.”

 

“Oh, where are my manners!” Then he throws his arms around Sherlock in a hug and drags him in, doing the same to John next. A greyhound lounging on a soft dog bed peeks up at the newcomers.

 

It’s...such a normal, cozy home. There are photos of this man and his husband, and of their dog, and other family get togethers, including one of Sherlock and an elderly couple that must have been from a few years back. And the whole place smells like _delicious_ coffee and...breakfast?

 

The man ushers them in through the kitchen doors and into the dining room, then leans down to give the man seated at the table a kiss.

 

“UGH! Stop being gross.”

 

John turns to Sherlock with surprise, not expecting such an outburst from his unflappable friend.

 

“Sherlock!” he reprimands.

 

“Oh, Dr. Watson, he’s not being a bigot, just an annoying younger sibling,” the man says. He stands and comes around the table to shake John’s hand.

 

“Pleased to meet you, I’m his brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

 

John’s jaw drops.

 

“Brother-”

 

Honestly, though, he’s not sure why he’s so surprised. Sherlock’d deduced he had a sibling and he’d mentioned Harry was his sister, but they hadn’t exactly discussed families otherwise.

 

“And this man,” he says, putting an arm around the one who’d shown them into the house, “is my husband, professor James Moriarty.”

 

“Please do stay for Sunday brunch,” he tells them, all wide-eyed and imploring. John finds himself taking a seat. Out of politeness. And bacon.

 

“We’re not staying for brunch!” Sherlock says, going completely ignored as James ushers him into a seat and hands him a plate a moment later.

 

He pours John a cup of coffee ("Black?") and passes Sherlock a glass of juice ("I know you've been trying to cut down on caffeine.")

 

“Professor, huh? Do you teach? What area?” John asks. “It seems like you two know all about me, though Sherlock’s been keeping me in the dark about his family.”

 

“Calculus,” he says with a laugh. “Much of it theoretical, but occasionally I...consult on physics related matters as well. Our departments are right next to each other!”

 

“Maths!” John says, catching on. “Oh, you must be why we’re here, we were just on our way over from a case, a lot of financial data involved…”

 

Sherlock, still sulking, plunks the binder down on the table.

 

“No, Moriarty here isn’t the one we need. Mycroft, I need you to look at these numbers,” he says.

 

At John’s questioning look, Mycroft gives him a small smile.

 

“I’m an accountant. I work in a minor office of the government,” Mycroft explains.

 

“Oh!”

 

“Yes, John, the man who has possibly the most infallible memory in the world, who can cross-reference anything on command, decided to spend his life pencil-pushing for the Transport Ministry,” Sherlock snaps.

 

Mycroft ignores Sherlock’s outburst, and takes the binder and peeks inside, but not before giving James a concerned glance.

 

“Hm, I’m…” He seemed hesitant to accept.

 

“We try not to bring work home,” James explains, a hand on Mycroft’s arm. They smile at each other, and Sherlock gags.

 

“I’ll look at it later,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock looks like he wants to strangle something.

 

“It’ll take _you_ five minutes!” he complains.

 

“I’ll look at it when I bring it to my office,” Mycroft says lightly.

 

Sherlock looks at them, aghast, and conversation continues around him as he is ignored. The greyhound pads into the dining room, and decides to curl up under the table, as someone passes him scraps.

 

“How did you two meet?” John asks.

 

Mycroft laughs and sets down his orange juice - is that a mimosa? - and the couple turn to each other with these smiley, soppy looks that make Sherlock want to hurl again.

 

“It was incredibly embarrassing,” he says. “We met at a university function - I was a colleague’s plus-one, and ended up mistaking him for a waiter! At an event honoring him!”

 

“Oh stop!” James devolves into laughter, burying his face in his hands. “I’m the embarrassing one, I step into the room and immediately run into one of the waiters - they had to take my jacket to clean and dry before I got on stage to give a speech, can you imagine? Standing up there accepting an award covered in wine? “

 

“You’re both embarrassments,” Sherlock mutters darkly, as John noisily tries to shush him. “Mycroft, you’re an embarrassment to the Holmes name, do you understand that?”

 

 _John_ is the one who is embarrassed, as he swats at Sherlock and tries to smile politely at the remainder of the story, and he’s rather thankful that they’re used to Sherlock’s stroppiness enough to not mind his tantrum.

 

.

 

James gives Sherlock another hug before they leave, at the door, and Sherlock is freezes up at the assault.

 

“Sherlock, it really was very nice seeing you again, you really should stop by more often,” he says. “I want you to think of me as your brother too.”

 

“Ugh, no, stop talking to me,” Sherlock says, wriggling unsuccessfully from the embrace. “Seducing my brother into your normal boring ordinary life with a house and a garden and a dog you- you two bit hussy.”

 

The greyhound looks up with hurt, watery eyes at the comment.

 

“Sherlock!” John hisses, tugging him out the doorway. “Sorry - he didn’t mean that - he’s just. Busy case. Stress! Goodbye.”

 

.

 

The cab ride back is silent, which is not unusual, as Sherlock often sulks for hours at a time.

 

“They seem nice,” John comments as the car pulls up in front of their Baker Street flat.

 

“Don’t let their overdone veneer of _ordinary_ fool you, John, I’m confident Moriarty is behind this scheme,” Sherlock says as they ascend the stairs.

 

“Oh come off of it, they’re just a happy couple, marriage isn’t necessarily a _scheme-”_

 

“Not that, John,” Sherlock says exasperated. He turns around and makes a face at John before ducking into the flat. “This _case._ The break-in, the missing executive - Moriarty is behind this, somehow, and I’ll expose him once and for all.”

 

John stops dead in his tracks.

  
“I’m sorry, _what?”_


	2. Chapter 2

John follows Sherlock into the flat, bewildered expression plain as day, but Sherlock doesn’t see it. No, he’s too busy digging through the pile of books that constitutes for an organization system.

 

“Pft,  _ calculus,”  _ he spits out, the way someone might say  _ cockroach.  _

 

“He studies  _ physics  _ \- he wrote a treatise on probability theory that rivals my mother’s own work,” Sherlock says. He finds what he’s looking for, and tosses it to John. 

 

It’s a manuscript. John flips it open to find a sweet dedication to Mycroft Holmes on the first page - weird, but, okay - followed by many pages of dense mathematical material.

 

Sherlock’s had crazy theories before and turned out absolutely right each time, so instead of asking  _ are you sure _ , he says, “Does your brother know?”

 

Sherlock gives him a dark look that can’t bode well, but doesn’t answer directly.

 

He pulls a phone out of his pocket that isn’t his - it’s James’s. John truly is not surprised at this point. Sherlock unlocks it easily with his brother’s birthday, gags a bit seeing the saccharine reminders for date nights on his calendar, and reads through his texts. 

 

“He’s a clever one, Moriarty, he would’ve deleted or coded any incriminating material, of course,” Sherlock mutters. Then he jumps and nearly drops the phone, getting a text.

 

_ Oops! Think you picked up my phone there by accident, Sherlock. _

 

The text appears from the sender: Mycroft(heart emoji).

 

_ (It’s James!) _

 

_ (I couldn’t find my phone so I GPS tracked it - imagine seeing it had made its way to Baker Street!) _

 

Sherlock winds up to hurl the phone into the fireplace.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

.

 

True to his word, it’s not until Monday that Mycroft gets to Sherlock’s request.

 

“Five million did indeed leave the premises, but not the date of the break-in,” Mycroft says into the receiver, flipping absently through the pages Sherlock’d given him.“I’d wager this was unrelated to the break-in directly, possibly even a red herring, but of course I don’t know the details.”

 

“Let me guess, the money was lost about a week ago?” Sherlock asks drily.

 

“Yes, in fact,” Mycroft says. “I rather doubt this Van Coon character is your perpetrator.”

 

“No, I rather think not,” Sherlock says, looking down at the floor where Van Coon’s body lay. “Because I’m standing over his corpse right now.”

 

Mycroft grimaces at the phone.

 

“Do you need the papers back?” he asks.

 

“Of course not - banks these days barely keep anything on paper, I had John print those out for you. Get rid of them, will you?”

 

Mycroft sighs, eyeing his shredder. “Do come by more often Sherlock, will you?” 

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pockets his phone. 

 

“You figure this is related, Sherlock?” John asks.

 

“Too coincidental not to be,” Sherlock mutters.

 

“You think whatever he saw that was erased from the tapes, made him do this?” John stepped around the body. Gun in hand, and a head wound. He frowned. Something wasn’t right, but what?

 

“The missing footage - it’s a path that leads to a spot with direct sightlines to Van Coon’s office,” Sherlock says. 

 

“The gun was meant for an intruder,” Sherlock answers his unvoiced question. “This was not a suicide.”

 

“He was murdered,” Sherlock says.

 

.

 

“It was absolutely brilliant!” John says, waving his fork about.

 

He continues to recount their exploits around the dinner table, Mycroft and James listening with interest, as Sherlock sullenly stabs at his potatoes.

 

“It turned out the criminals we were looking for were a Chinese  _ syndicate _ \- the Black Lotus - they were smuggling antiques into the country for auction,” John says between bites. Sherlock rolls his eyes - John’s  _ enjoying _ having an audience. The irony.

 

“That sounds like something out of a spy novel!” James says.

 

John laughs. “That’s what I’m telling you! You  _ can’t _ make this up!”

 

“So here they were, having British nationals smuggling antiques in for them - a reporter, a banker - you probably saw on the news,” John says.

 

“No!” Mycroft gasps. “That reporter from the Journal?”

 

_ “Yes,” _ John says. “So an antique went missing - a hairpin, this tiny little trinket that turned out to be worth five million - and they, this big scary syndicate of Chinese acrobats, can’t tell which one of their smugglers pocketed the item. So they go and order hits on both of them.”

 

“But- how did you know?” James asks, looking between Sherlock, whose eyes are fixed on is now-mashed potatoes, and John, still telling the story.

 

“That’s the thing, Sherlock noticed the graffiti left for the smugglers were Chinese numbers - a code they used to make drops and pickups, and in this case a message to return the item or face death. It wasn’t until Lukis - the reporter’s - death that we realized, because at the bank, well it turned out the custodian on duty had erased the graffiti before we saw it - the cameras had stopped recording so we hadn’t seen it. But for Sherlock, that was enough to tip him off,” John says.

 

“John,” Mycroft says, setting down his fork and shaking his head. “You should really be writing a book!”

 

James laughs, which only makes Sherlock scowl.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, the great detective!” James says. “Oh, your adventures would fly off the bookshelves.”

 

Sherlock slams his silverware on the table at that, to which Mycroft only sighs and shakes his head, taking a drink, and James only gives him a lazy smile. John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.

 

“No, the real question is, how did this obscure, ancient syndicate even think to fix operations in the UK, hm? How did this clannish, dynastic group even cultivate British assets for them to smuggle these items? Who planted that seed, Moriarty?” Sherlock asks, now staring James right in the eyes. 

 

James blinks, thinking it over.

 

“Oh! That is a good question. Globalization? Sons and daughters studying overseas to help make the connection? We’ve plenty of Chinese students at Oxford,” he says innocently.

 

“Any you’ve  _ advised _ , Professor Moriarty?” Sherlock shoots back.

 

John looks between the two of them, wondering whether to intervene. Sherlock’s not often wrong, but he’s also not often so - emotionally irrational about his accusations. But John doesn’t have to answer.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, tired.  _ “One _ dinner. Can’t you just  _ please _ be civil at least through one dinner? Can’t we make it through  _ one _ meal without you accusing my husband of some vast conspiracy?”

 

“Vast conspiracy?” John asks.

 

“Well,” James says slowly, both hands on the table. “Sherlock has quite a  _ vast _ imagination, Dr. Watson. I guess that’s part of what makes him a  _ really _ good detective.”

 

.

 

Sherlock practically kicks in the front door at 221B.

 

“You remember the case I solved just before we met?” Sherlock says, unwrapping his scarf with haste. John does - serial suicides that weren’t suicides at all - he’d read about it in an article when he googled Sherlock’s name.

 

“Just before I left Mycroft’s house, he offered to drive me back, said it’d take ages to get a cab at that hour,” Sherlock says, glaring at the wall. “If it wasn’t for that, the idea that a  _ taxi driver _ might’ve been behind it wouldn’t have crossed my mind for another few hours. Lo and behold - that’s exactly what the killer was.”

 

“Um.” John closes the door behind him.

 

“And then there was the death of a talk show host - run of the mill murder - angry sibling, inheritance on the line, et cetera,” Sherlock said. “I’d happened to be on speakerphone with Mycroft, because of course he was  _ pleading _ for me to stop by again, and James just happened to remark -  _ she’s had quite a bit of work done, hasn’t she? _ ”

 

“And as it turns out, she’d been killed by her own stash of Botox,” Sherlock grumbles, now pacing the flat furiously.

 

“Then there was a missing persons case, where his car was found soaked with his blood. But oh no, the victim wasn’t dead, it wasn’t murder at all. It was  _ insurance fraud _ , and James had just been complaining about car insurance the other day,” Sherlock says. He looks ready to strangle something.

 

“Do you think, Sherlock, there is  _ any chance _ these are all just coincidences?” John asks, scratching the back of his head.

 

Sherlock glares daggers at him, expression dark.

  
“The universe is  _ rarely _ so lazy, John,” he snaps before storming into his room and slamming the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh fair warning I got really carried away with backstory and so haf the fic will probably end up being that. This is an interesting (confusing? potentially) experiment im plotlessness

James nuzzles into the back of Mycroft’s neck, and he can sense the other man is on the verge of falling asleep.

 

“Do you think he really hates me?” James asks, jarring him awake again.

 

Mycroft shifts a bit, and James leans over to try to catch his expression.

 

“Do you think it’s because he suspects me to be some criminal mastermind, or because he thinks I stole you away from him?” James asks.

 

Mycroft turns so he can narrow his eyes at James.

 

“Is  _ that _ why you keep egging him on?”

 

James has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

 

“Well, if he suspects me he’ll continue to come by, won’t he,” he says. 

 

Mycroft rolls back over.

 

“I see,” he says sarcastically, as James succumbs to snorting laughter and a pillow to the face. 

 

“So you’re creating dramatic fights over dinner out of the goodness of your heart,” Mycroft says, not even fighting the smile. 

 

“Yes, well, that is what criminal masterminds do.”

 

James snakes an arm around his waist and Mycroft puts his hand over James’s anyway. 

 

“I love you,” he mumbles, voice sleepy.

 

.

 

Sherlock lounges in the high-backed armchair like a snooty cat, staring gloomily into the fire, while John sits on the couch like a normal person and chats with their hosts - Mycroft, who’s taken a seat in the other large armchair, and Jim perched on the arm of it - all three of them nursing drinks.

 

“I feel awful,” John apologizes again. “Had I known it was your birthday, Mycroft, I would’ve gotten you something.”

 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, waving it off. “Don’t trouble yourself with that, We have so many  _ things _ and our lives are no better for it, isn’t that right? I am much more grateful to be able to spend time with my loved ones.”

 

John side-eyes Sherlock, who is still being a big grump, staunchly ignoring the way Mycroft and James are giving each other soppy looks.

 

Fact of the matter is, John and Sherlock were only here because Sherlock had landed a wonderfully difficult case, but there was a financial component he wouldn’t quite puzzle out. (And now John feels a little bit guilty. Sure Mycroft and his husband were kind of boring and ordinary, but they seemed perfectly nice.)

 

“Yes, yes, happy birthday Mycroft,” Sherlock intones, eyes boring holes in the flames.

 

And now the files he’d brought Mycroft sat ignored on the coffee table. It was work, and it was a Tuesday, which meant Sherlock’d not hear back until the next day and it would just eat away at him.

 

“It was such a lovely surprise!” James adds. “We are having a small get together for Mycroft on Friday, I’d texted Sherlock the details? You haven’t RSVP’d. Oh please tell me you can make it, we’d love to have you two over.”

 

Sherlock looks like he wants to fling  _ himself _ into the fire. He snorts.

 

“A  _ party  _ Mycroft?” Sherlock mutters.

 

“Um we, we better get going,” John says, sensing he better usher Sherlock out before he gets into another spat. “I’ll let you know how the case turns out!”

 

“See you Friday!” James calls after them.

 

“I’m not coming!” 

 

“Bye Sherlock!”

 

.

 

Three days later, Lestrade calls Sherlock about a kidnapped banker now being held hostage for ransom.

 

It’s a taken persons case, not particularly financial, save for the oddly encrypted money-drop involved.

 

Still, Sherlock is seething, and John - well, he can kind of understand why Sherlock’s so annoyed with his brother-in-law.

 

“I mean, he’s always right; bit arrogant about it too. Never explains his plans either, just expects everyone to fall in line. Sound familiar?”

 

Sherlock looks down at his friend like he’s gone crazy.

 

“What are you talking about?” 

 

John sighs. “Nevermind.”

 

.

 

Christmas comes around just a few weeks later. John is dating someone new, Sherlock is absorbed in a case, and they send out invitations to a little get-together at 221B. Never threw a housewarming party when he moved in, after all.

 

“Should we invite your bro-”

 

“Don’t you  _ dare.” _

 

.

 

They end up inviting the happy Moriarty-Holmes couple anyway.

 

Well. Formerly happy. Normally happy?

 

It’s possibly the most uncomfortable party John has  _ ever _ thrown (not the most uncomfortable he’s ever  _ attended, _ but, different story). Mycroft and his husband James, probably the absolute  _ soppiest _ couple John has ever had the misfortune to witness, are standing on opposite sides of the room, each nursing a drink and pointedly ignoring each other.

 

Now, John has seen the couple often enough to know something’s up. He and Sherlock end up at his brother’s home practically once a week for brunch or dinner, despite Sherlock’s raging protests. It’s always some case or another that does it, which oddly enough does play into Sherlock’s suspicions.

 

John wonders if the two have had a fight. Except, they hadn’t seen a fight.

 

They’d entered the party holding hands, and John honestly hadn’t paid much attention to them. And then Sherlock’d gone and made a fool of Molly, rudely humiliating her in front of guests.

 

Then the phone went off. With a text. From  _ her. _

 

If John hadn’t been looking in that direction to begin with, he would’ve missed it. Sherlock certainly did, absorbed as he was with the  _ woman. _ But John happened to be looking, so John happened to see the moment an odd look passed over Mycroft’s face, as he looked at his husband, who then turned to avoid him.  

 

Words, absolutely unspoken, must have passed between them in some kind of crazy silent - telepathic? - fight, maybe something  _ geniuses _ did, but now they were draining all the liquor bottles dry, holed up in opposite corners of the living room.

 

The party’s over before long before they get the call from the morgue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's short - sorry - it's something of a transition

“Give it up!” Sherlock declares, storming into his brother’s home. 

 

John follows, as per usual, into the living room. But this time he’s ready to defend Sherlock’s seemingly outlandish accusations if necessary. Mycroft and James have been nothing but welcoming, but the proof Sherlock had this time was undeniable.

 

He holds out a phone - and James seems to recognize it before Mycroft. 

 

James sinks down into the cushy sofa, a hand going up to cover his mouth. He glances at Mycroft, worried, before looking away.

 

The phone’s not unlocked - but it doesn’t have to be. There’s a notification of a new text, from a blocked number:

 

_ 747 HEATHROW 6:30 TO BALTIMORE _

 

“I’m sorry,” James says, looking every bit the man sentenced to the gallows.

 

“You’re not the one so desperate to show off so as to get taken in by a-” Mycroft sighs. He takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Then he walks over to James, puts his arm around him with his hand resting on his shoulder.

 

“I thought I had it locked up,” James says, looking up at Mycroft.

 

Sherlock laughs, angry. “You thought I couldn’t get into your safe?”

 

Then he stops, and stares at Mycroft as if just seeing him. John stops too.

 

“You knew?” Sherlock asks, tone of voice belying his sheer and utter disbelief.

 

Mycroft holds his hand out for the phone.

 

“James Moriarty has been in  _ league _ with terrorists!” Sherlock exclaims. “He’s been working with The Woman to sell confidential information-”

 

“-which  _ you _ supplied her,” Mycroft snaps.

 

“-and this is merely the  _ latest _ of his crimes! Every single case I’ve brought to you - they were all linked to Moriarty! Why aren’t you upset about this?” Sherlock cries.

 

Oddly enough, John notices, James is the one who is upset. He’s leaned his head against Mycroft’s leg, with his arm crossed over his chest to hold Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder, shrinking into himself. Mycroft all but shields him from view. 

 

Mycroft is the one who’s cold and expressionless. Sherlock sees, too, that he won’t budge. He steps back, and pulls out his own phone.

 

“I’m calling the police,” he insists.

 

“Put down the  _ phone _ , Sherlock,” Mycroft says, raising his voice.

 

“Why! You’ve done nothing but defend him, all these years! You’ve ignored every piece of evidence I’ve brought you, blindly! And I’ve yet to hear an explanation. Give me  _ one _ good reason not to, or-”

 

“He’s not a criminal, Sherlock. He’s-” Mycroft stops and heaves a sigh, trying to keep his composure. “He’s an informant.”

 

It's a long moment before Sherlock agrees to sit, and hear Mycroft explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and from here we go from Sherlock and John's POV to Mycroft and James...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flashbacks from here on out

Mycroft’s nearly done with double-checking the department’s operational budget, and about to triple-check it, when his supervisor knocks on his cubicle and pokes his head in.

 

“Hey, Holmes. Are you busy?”

 

Mycroft wants to say yes. But he says no.

 

“Well, yes I am working. But it’s not  _ urgent,” _ Mycroft answers slowly.

 

Mr. Balliet hooks his finger in that ‘follow me’ gesture Mycroft dislikes. Mycroft rises from his seat anyway to chase after him.

 

“So,” Balliet says. “We need to loan you out to the budget office.”

 

Mycroft squints at him.

 

“They’re running behind and figured they could use all the human calculators they could get,” Balliet continues. Mycroft does accounting for the Transport Ministry, but evidently his boss thinks of him as a human calculator. 

 

“And I figured, you’re probably only triple-checking our budget anyway,” Balliet says, as Mycroft tries not to flush. “So why not ask you to take a look? They really can’t delay the budget any longer.  _ We _ can’t delay the budget any longer. It’ll be a right mess, and you  _ know _ what they’re already saying about us in the press.”

 

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him yet again, but ducks into the room he’s been walked to without complaint anyway. The conference room at the end of the building has been turned into a sort of war room as members from the budget office, along with what he assumes are other “borrowed” personnel, sort through papers and run numbers and argue. 

 

Mycroft notices a large screen displaying headshots of five politicians, just as the door swings shut behind him.

 

This is no end-of-year budget re-check; they’re not here to make sure spending from departments matches the returns they’ve filed, oh no they could just check the accounts for that.

 

His face must voice every concern he has, because there’s a woman sitting him down at a workstation and shoving a box of papers at him.

 

“You are correct, Holmes,” she says. He doesn’t know who she is, but she smiles, briefly, and shakes his hand. “I’m Vivian Hastings, and yes I  _ am _ from the budget office. But you’ve likely guessed this isn’t about the budget - or not what your supervisor has told you about the budget.” She winks, then nods toward the screen.

 

“We’re here to find out which one of them’s been embezzling.”

 

.

 

Three days later, Mycroft is back in his cubicle, and that is that.

 

Until it isn’t.

 

Over the next two months, Balliet has him help Hastings check some numbers whenever things get busy over at the Budget office and slow down at Transport, which starts to happen with increasing frequency. 

 

Mycroft can read the tea leaves; all of a sudden, halfway through the quarter, they’ve hired a second accountant for the department despite work having “slowed” to the point where he was working practically for another department twice a week.

 

Hasting’s intern, assistant, Andrea something or the other stops by Mycroft’s cubicle and knocks. He’s expected to hand over the numbers he’s been working on. They do this twice a week, so familiar with each other’s presence now she doesn’t even look up for her phone.

 

“I need to speak to Ms. Hastings,” Mycroft says, pinning the folder her assistant is after under his elbow. 

 

She slowly looks up from her phone, gives him a long, blank look, then eyes the folder. Mycroft suspects that if they’d met as teens, she would be the type to snap her bubblegum at him after he lectured her about being out in the halls during classes. 

 

“I’ll pass the message along,” she says sweetly, hand still outstretched.

 

He is just a  _ tiny _ bit miffed.

 

Mycroft hands over the folder anyway. 

 

.

 

Balliet comes by to do his knock-and-follow routine a few days later, and Mycroft finds himself in a different conference room down the hall. Hastings, her assistant, and a few other people he recognizes from the budget meet are there, along with a few other supposedly-accountants he does not recognize.

 

They give him some spiel about double-checking Cabinet members’ spending, but Mycroft’s had enough.

 

He stands and practically corners Hastings - it’s not his fault he’s so tall and she’s, well, not - until she pulls him aside.

 

“What is it you people want with me?” Mycroft asks.

 

She has the gall to look surprised, and feigns innocence, which is actually a little insulting. Mycroft’s expression says as much.

 

“I’d have to be an idiot not to realize this is converted from foreign currency; this is not our defense budget, but some other nation’s. Russia, if I’m guessing correctly,” Mycroft says. He glances at the other “Budget Office” mid-level managers, who aren’t at all.

 

“Are any of you even accountants?” he asks.

 

Hastings gives him a smile that is open to no further discussion.

 

“Mr. Holmes, it’s probably better you don’t know,” she says. “Only that it’s a matter of national security.”

 

That shuts him up.

 

.

 

Mycroft gets used to the idea of “need to know” rather quickly. By the time he starts walking back to his cubicle, he’s rather satisfied with the situation. By the time he sits back down in his own seat, he’s a little happy about not bearing any responsibility for whatever Hastings and the others are getting up to.

 

Then the courier drops off a package - Mycroft opens the envelope to find a burner phone.

 

Gingerly, he sets it down at the edge of his desk, giving it nervous side-glances every so often. Was this to listen in on him? Was he now and forever going to be surveilled for-

 

The phone vibrates twice, with a new text, and Mycroft jumps a little but checks it. There is a time and location.

 

.

 

The location turns out to be a nearby cafe, for which Mycroft is grateful. Chances are very low he would be killed in a cafe.

 

His eyes widen at the sight of Hastings, unsure whether he should be relieved at the familiar face or dreading that his suspicions are being confirmed. 

 

He orders the sweetest drink on the menu and then takes a seat opposite her at the small table near the back. She has the full view of the room and exits, whereas Mycroft is squished next to a potted plant. 

 

Mycroft takes a sip of his scalding, molten caramel drink, then looks at her expectantly. She smiles.

 

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” she says. “Welcome to MI5.”


	6. Chapter 6

James Moriarty nearly trips his way in through the doors, late to his own party. And then he doesn’t make it three steps across the room before nearly being stepped on by a turning waiter, who in the next moment up-ends a glass of half drunken champagne all over James’s jacket.

 

“Oh…” He’s stunned, really. He doesn’t know what to say. The waiter rushes to apologize, and James standing there with his arms a bit outstretched, hands hanging down, allows the guy to strip him of the jacket in no time, promising to dry and return it as the Dean’s wife standing beside James explains who he is. 

 

James gives her a grateful smile, and supposes she’s as good a person to make small talk with as any. Most of the people in the room tonight are not scholars, but donors. They’re people who won’t understand a word of his research, but still think him the fool for not being able to keep up in entertaining them in conversation. He wants to pick up one of those tiny forks being handed out with the crab puffs and stab himself in the carotid artery. 

 

Thankfully the Dean’s wife signals her husband and the man about to introduce James starts to get ready - he’ll say a few words, it’ll go on for a while, the donors will laugh, and then James will step up to the podium and wave around his silly little glass award and they’ll laugh some more, pat themselves on the back, and he’ll circle the room once or twice before feigning ill and go home.

 

He’s about to make his way toward the kitchen doors to check on his jacket when a much taller man hands him two glasses.

 

“Oh, would you be able to take these off my hands? Thank you,” he says politely.

 

James blinks once, twice, having already taken hold of the glasses. Oh god, the man thinks him a waiter! Well that’s a first.

 

“Oh, um. I’m not.” He’s saved the embarrassment of explaining when the real waiter shows up to embarrass him for him, handing him the jacket with further apologies and wrangling the glasses from his hands.

 

James watches as the man’s face turns pink, all the way to the tips of his ears. James gives him a helpless smile to commiserate. But he doesn’t get to say anything before he’s whisked away to stand ready in the aisle to accept his award.

 

He’s cute, in that he stays politely embarrassed by the whole thing as James can see out the corner of his eye. James tries to not be obvious about his looking, as the man is very clearly still looking.

 

The man watches him give his tiny speech and is probably the only one to laugh at the blink-and-you'll-miss-it math joke, before coughing and blushing again, realizing he's the only one. And James thinks, fuck it. He gives in, makes eye contact, and then holds it until he’s ushered off the little podium setup. 

 

He’s still eyeing James halfway across the room as James does the handshake circuit and now James is hoping for something a little more interesting than an apology. 

 

It’s another two ‘thank you - no, thank  _ you _ ’s before he gets close enough to approach.

 

He can see it as the man opens his mouth - it’s going to be an apology. James doesn’t give him the chance, latching on as soon as he’s finished with one couple and angling away from the crowd.

 

“You can make it up to me by rescuing me from all this small talk,” James says, smiling up at him. It goes unspoken that he’s not quite like the rest of the crowd. Not that he doesn't seem well off, but not many here seem to know him. Ah, he's a plus one. 

 

He glances behind him, just imperceptibly, and James follows his line of sight to peek at the person he came with. Older woman, divorced, she’s definitely part of the donor crowd. Hmm, was he supposed to be arm candy? He wasn’t acting like it.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he finally introduces himself. “And terribly embarrassed by the way I’ve managed to introduce myself earlier.”

 

“I’d like to say that was the worst that’s happened at one of these events, Mr. Holmes, but honestly it was probably the highlight,” James says very seriously, startling a laugh out of him.

 

“Not the award?” he asks, still smiling.

 

James makes such a face at him, long-suffering and undeniably worthy of pity, and Mycroft finds himself walking him toward the door.

 

.

 

There are cabs waiting outside the event so when Mycroft sees James to a car, he thinks that’s that.

 

Then he asks, “Which way are you going?” and Mycroft ends up in the taxi with him.

 

Mycroft is surprised at how many places James knows that stay open so late, but the man opens his mouth and Mycroft finds himself suckered into one ridiculous story after another, during which they do what he feels like is the artsy indie film equivalent of bar-hopping, moving from diner to cafe to hotel bar. 

 

It’s freezing, and though they’ve both got great coats on, between his wild gesturing James shivers, and Mycroft has the urge to wrap the smaller man in his jacket. 

 

“It is quite late,” Mycroft admits. “Can I get you a cab?”

 

They already tried this once, and look where they ended up. Anyway, he's not entirely sure they'll get one at this hour without a considerable wait, but he can admit at least to himself he's in no rush.

 

James blinks at him, surprised.

 

“Actually,” he starts, seeming a little flustered. “I'm just around here.”

 

He ducks his head, before coming back up to look up at Mycroft imploringly.

 

“Will you come up for a drink?” he asks before Mycroft can even offer to walk him to the door. Mycroft nods.

 

.

 

James ends up leading him up by the hand to his little book-covered flat, putting the kettle on for tea instead of pouring liquor, saying he needs to give him something to warm his hands around.

 

The water barely starts to bubble as James peeks over, cheeks still pink from the cold, watching Mycroft flip through one of his books.

 

It strikes James as insane, for a moment. Mycroft looks so out of place in his eclectic flat but cosy and comfortable nonetheless. James has half a mind to keep him there. He hands him a mug and takes a seat beside him on the sofa.

 

Then he blinks. 

 

“I don't usually do this,” he says. 

 

Mycroft looks at him, eyes wide. 

 

“Okay that sounds quite incriminating in this context, I realize,” James admits, putting his foot in his mouth. “I don't mean it like, like  _ that.” _

 

He smiles at that anyway, seeming to relax. 

 

They still end up in bed together before the end of the night. 

 

.

 

_ I need to see you.  _

 

Mycroft has to work really hard to fight the smile resisting his unflappable exterior in the face of this new text. 

 

“Where did you disappear to last night?” Andrea asks, raising an eyebrow without raising her eyes from her own work phone, in a tone that says she already knows. “With that professor?”

 

She’d been tucked away in the crowd as well, yet Mycroft was still asked to attend with with a friend of Hasting’s. 

 

He’s deduced the professor in question is suspected of selling state secrets, though they haven’t said nearly as much to him. And, truly, he hadn’t  _ meant _ to run off with him.

 

“Am I not allowed to date?” Mycroft asks mildly.

 

Andrea looks up at that, a highly amused smile curling at her lips.

 

“You’ve signed NDAs,” she says.

 

“Yes, to hold my tongue,” Mycroft says dryly, thinking better of making a dirty joke. “Not to put me under house arrest.”

 

She hasn’t stopped smiling, but her eyes are no longer amused.

 

“Mr. Holmes, you’re an analyst, not a case officer,” she warns.

 

He rolls his eyes. 

 

“Working him is the  _ last _ thing on my mind, believe me,” Mycroft says. 

 

She tsks. 

 

“That’s not better,” Andrea says.

 

He holds his tongue, turning back to his work. But he pockets the phone.


	7. Chapter 7

It is in poor taste, Mycroft realizes, to smile through a briefing on a dangerous terrorist who has been suspected of leaving his country. 

 

Mycroft’s lip twitches as Hastings shares the probability rate that this man has made his way into the UK, versus other high profile locations in the United States or, say, Paris or Berlin, and Mycroft has to mentally chastise himself. He forces his eyes back on the briefing files, the scruffy mugshot, the details he memorized an hour ago, but apparently waking up next to your boyfriend, officially, has profound ramifications.

 

God, he sounds like a love-struck teen. 

 

It is all very new and Mycroft suspects, quite rightly, that he is in over his head (he has a drawer!).

 

Then, of course, his phone buzzes with a text from James while Hasting is doling out assignments and Mycroft coughs very loudly and obviously to cover it up while Andrea rolls her eyes very, very slowly at him.

 

.

 

James loves the internet; it’s much more vast than people think, infinite if you put your mind to it, but most are happy to stick to their portal sites and newsfeeds and never-ending stream of promotional emails. 

 

He wonders what he might be doing, if not for the internet. He’s not old enough to have built this career prior to its existence - it’s as if, as if everything all came together, the world unfolding technologically in tune with his ambitions. 

 

For instance, it only takes half his lunch hour to set up a whole identity switcheroo - enter the country with one set of papers and wander around with another; he has a network of people each playing a role small enough they don’t think much of it, much less how it might add up. All the more impressive when his bigger clients need an errand but have no one they’re willing to risk for it. 

 

Better still, he’s never met any of these people face to face. Through means both conventional and advanced, a few lines via keyboard is enough to move obscenes amounts of money, entire human lives, and even power 'round and 'round the world. 

 

Networking, networking. 

 

It’s extraordinary. He wouldn’t have been able to do this with as much expediency without the internet (would he have bothered to do it at all? Perhaps the challenge of it would have been even  _ more _ alluring…). 

 

But best of all - the most important part, really - this allows him another thirty-five minutes to text Mycroft and eat his sandwich at his desk as he waits for replies.

 

_ I can't wait to see you tonight.  _

 

.

 

James ends up burning the sauce, so intent he is on teaching Mycroft to cut the eggplant  _ properly.  _ He's a bit handsy about it, he'll admit. Pity though, he won't be able to impress Mycroft with his cooking. The sauce is crucial.

 

"I'm sure it's salvageable," Mycroft says, to be kind. The funny thing is, it works. When Mycroft says things will be fine, all James wants to do is wrap his arms around the man, kiss him on the lips, and agree, yes it will. There is a buoyancy to his mood that feels right. Normal. But James knows, intellectually, it is not. He knows this, but he has not emotionally absorbed this fact. 

 

James knows he looks fairly mild-mannered, and often uses this to his advantage. But his emotional state is anything but. He is not an optimist. He is not  _ happy-go-lucky _ . He has no idea why Mycroft finds him to be perfectly lovely, but it makes him want to be. James soaks up the attention, the unconditional affection. 

 

He’s on cloud nine.

 

He also worries, keenly, that he is on the verge of developing an obsession.

 

And that's just no good. 

 

He  _ knows _ how obsessions eat him right up, chew through him until there's nothing left. Moderation is key. He’s learned this. He knows this. Slow things down with Mycroft. Don't equate him with your happiness. This is why you developed hobbies! Illegal ones still count. See him twice a week instead of every night. Stop trying to strongarm the man into moving in with you. You will crash, and you will crash hard. 

 

James tastes the sauce with a wooden spoon and a small smile as Mycroft watches him do so. All his reasonable, rational, therapy-earned mantras are drowned out by a steady stream of nonsense proclaiming the man before him  _ gorgeous, perfect, angel, keep him, kiss him, everything will be perfect.  _

 

.

 

God, what did he even  _ do _ two months ago?

 

James frowns at the map, and realizes he hasn’t had a new client in almost two months. Well, a new  _ big _ client. Since....since he started seeing Mycroft. 

 

Well that was going to have to change.

 

Maybe if he spends more time convincing foreign arms dealers to entertain the idea of a trans-continental route that leads into London he won’t have so much time to fixate over what he’s going to cook for Mycroft or what it means that Mycroft has or hasn’t dressed up more than usual on any particular date. 

 

Maybe the threat of all this going tits up is enough of an adrenaline kick, enough of a rush, that the gray doldrums of the hours spent apart from Mycroft won’t seem so God awful boring. 

 

Maybe, if he spends his idle hours planning something so elaborate and extreme, he won’t fall asleep wondering why he’s alone. 

 

.

 

It doesn’t work (if anything, it makes things all a little bit worse).

 

But with Mycroft beneath him and teeth grazing his neck he doesn’t actually, well, care. 

 

.

 

Mycroft is a little bit disappointed that work has picked up. It was interesting, for a while, to work on cases that required a bit more puzzling out than his usual fare. 

 

But things had been going  _ so well _ with James. Mycroft is usually so cautious that the optimism of the statement surprises him, even inside his mind. That, plus the fact that truly he doesn’t know well enough to know whether things have been  _ going well. _

 

But despite Mycroft’s inexperience, he enjoys how close they’ve gotten. He has no reservations about getting closer. If James weren’t so incredibly accepting of him the thought would have made him self-conscious. 

 

But now he’s stuck at the office, clock about to strike midnight, and he has no choice but to cancel on James after having messaged about being delayed twice already. 

 

It’s this stupid arms trafficking ring that’s popped up. He wishes he never caught it. Early stages, it seems like, but it couldn’t have been drugs, or humans. And now he’s stuck at work trying to get to the bottom of this.

 

His phone  _ pings _ and Mycroft feels a bit guilty he’s making James reply so late an hour.

 

_ I can’t believe I haven’t given you a key yet. _

 

Mycroft shoves the phone in his pocket before he does something silly like  _ smile _ in such a way that Andrea immediately realizes what’s just happened. 

 

.

 

“Mm.” James presses a kiss to the side of Mycroft’s head, mostly still unwilling to leave the very warm bed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

 

Mycroft tries to turn around to face him but only manages to tangle himself in the sheets awkwardly.

 

“How long have you been up?” he asks blearily.

 

“Just now.”

 

Mycroft lets his head hit the pillow again, and is about to drift when he hears James ask, “Are we still on for Saturday?”

 

“Hm? Oh, um. I have plans Saturday,” Mycroft says into the pillow. 

 

There’s a pause, and then the bed dips a little as James plants his knee on it, leaning over Mycroft to try to make eye contact. 

 

“Plans?”

 

Mycroft blinks up at an upside-down James.

 

“Um. Maybe you can come with me.”

 

.

 

Saturday is when James realizes he is truly fucked. 

 

Mycroft is surprisingly cagey and eventually decides it will be better to show him. After a small commute there is a bit of a walk, and James is too focused on Mycroft to have paid much attention to their surroundings. 

 

And now he’s standing in the back of an animal shelter, watching Mycroft coo over a doggie.

 

He  _ volunteers. _

 

Mycroft looks incredibly flustered at that.

 

“No, well, I just- help walk them sometimes. Not as much lately. Used to be on weekends,” Mycroft says.

 

James looks around at the scrappy group of animals. Then the shy, skinny gray creature curled up around Mycroft’s feet. 

 

This is...dangerous.

 

He hadn’t even realized Mycroft was a dog person. Now he’s contemplating life in a cozy little home, just the two of them and a do. Probably with a yard so it could run outside. Sharing a bedroom. And a kitchen. Til death do we part.

 

Nothing could be further from that idyllic image than James’s reality - the one he hasn’t yet shared with Mycroft. He isn’t  _ loving partner _ material - sooner or later he’s bound to go on one of his  _ fits _ and then what? He can’t bear it if then they decide to leave - both Mycroft  _ and the dog. _ And what happens when he finds out James has a hobby of aiding and abetting criminals? That he’s just opened the silk road of arms trade?

 

That was going to be one awkward revelation - not that James particularly wanted to reveal any of this. He had no plans to reveal any of it. Part of the game was he not only evaded capture but his very existence should be unknown,  _ completely _ unknown. Anonymity was his calling card.

 

So he swallows down the sudden spike of nervousness and goes on a walk with a dog.

 

.

 

“It’s really just a very small thing,” Mycroft says, seemingly still embarrassed to be caught having anything resembling a life outside work, over an hour later. They’ve spent some time in the park, and are circling their way back.

 

A very small thing, James thinks, as he watches Mycroft make eyes at a dog making sad eyes at him and- oh no.

 

“My place isn’t really big enough for a dog,” Mycroft adds, as if that’s some kind of explanation.

 

“Me neither,” James says without thinking. Mycroft’s too busy playing with the dog to process that comment. 

 

James mentally kicks himself. A house big enough for a dog. He can already picture it.

 

.

 

The downside of too much foresight is that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

James had been so intent on not letting himself obsess over Mycroft, trying to stave off the inevitable crash, that even with Mycroft fast asleep beside him the darkness is creeping in. 

 

He runs his fingers across Mycroft’s knuckles, idly, then brings their hands up to press a kiss. 

 

“It was a very nice dream,” he murmurs, a whisper in the night. It couldn’t last. It’s not who he is. He doesn’t want to say it aloud. 

 

Slowly, quietly, he inches out of bed, still unwilling to drop Mycroft’s hand. And before he can, he feels a tug.

 

It’s all too easy to let himself get dragged back in.

 

“It’ll last,” Mycroft mumbles, soothing his unspoken fears. Something shockingly close to a sob threatens to burst out of James’s chest. He curls in close, and lets Mycroft wrap an arm around him. 

 

He listens to the breath and heartbeat more than the words out of Mycroft’s mouth. 

 

“What’s changed in the past week, hm? You keep looking at me as if I might run away.”

 

He likes the way Mycroft’s fingers card through his hair. He feels cared for in a way that shouldn’t be for him. He’s greedy enough to want it anyway. 

 

“I’m profoundly obsessed,” James confesses, unwilling to look at him.

 

“Me too,” Mycroft says all too easily. James thinks he misunderstands. “And I don’t think that’ll change.”

 

“I want to keep you,” Mycroft continues. James squeezes tight. “Forever. I promise to be more romantic about it in the morning, but, I love you James. Please go to sleep.”

 

James snorts. His shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying. 

 

“Stay with me.”

 

“Forever?” James asks. It’s a laugh this time.

 

“I mean it. Marry me.”

 

He goes still. It takes a lot of effort to drag himself up to eye-level. 

 

Mycroft cracks one eye open to glance at him, then sighs and settles back comfortably ready to go to sleep. “I promise I’ll be romantic about it in the morning,” he assures James again.

 

James just stares.

 

“Okay.” He hopes he’ll be more articulate in the morning, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for waffly mental health stuff

James wakes only to experience not relief but an intense nervousness. A nervousness, in fact, which seems at odds with the hollowed-out feeling that hasn’t left him either. Maybe if he doesn’t move, and Mycroft doesn’t wake, nothing has to change yet. He mentally takes stock of every item in the bathroom past the door behind him as he tries to steady his breath. Would he want to end it painfully, or quickly? James wills his traitorous reflexes to cooperate and hopes silently, and without moving, that the hammering of his heart doesn’t wake Mycroft - no avail.

 

Mycroft squirms and ends up turning towards James. The snuffling of early morning movement calms James, slightly, and then Mycroft is opening and closing his eyes and registering James’s cement-like facade.

 

“Morning,” Mycroft says, leaning down far enough to kiss James on the nose. Then he pushes up and heads toward the shower. “Take a shower with me.”

 

James follows woodenly. 

 

.

 

Amidst all the sudsing, James is still waiting for a retraction of some sort, either that the proposal was a joke, or that Mycroft has changed his mind about James entirely over the span of one night’s sleep. 

 

Needless to say, he’s caught off guard by the blowjob.

 

It only occurs to him at breakfast that Mycroft might have done it precisely for the purpose of distracting him.

 

It’d worked.

 

James frowns at his eggs and picks at the crusty corner of his toast. He can’t entirely remember how he got to this point.

 

Mycroft kisses him on the top of his head before taking a seat beside him.

 

“Will you tell me what’s been bothering you?” Mycroft asks. 

 

James thinks he nearly jumps out of his skin. He thought he’d been better at hiding than this.

 

“The past several days...there’s been a fog,” Mycroft adds. 

 

Now he kind of wants to bury his head in his arms and burrow through the table into the floor and disappear forever. 

 

Instead, he takes a moment. Mycroft waits patiently as he does. Then James moves his chair closer on an impulse. 

 

He immediately chastises himself; Mycroft differs from him in how he enjoys solitude regardless of his relationship status. James had been caught not once but twice following him into an establishment only to find Mycroft was not in fact on a date but dining and reading alone. 

 

Mycroft is not affronted by James's scooting his chair over. It feels pathetic that James finds this to be a relief. 

 

"You don't know what a miracle it is to even just find one person who understands you," James finally says.

 

Mycroft melts a little at that. "Yes."

 

"It scared you," Mycroft questions. 

 

"Not the way you think," James says haltingly. There is no good way to explain this. He doesn't want Mycroft to think he is so naive he thinks just being together will solve all his problems. He  _ knows _ this. Intellectually, he knows this. But his body doesn't seem to understand. 

 

"And I meant it when I said I want to spend the rest of my life with you," Mycroft said, taking his hand. "Whatever that means, whatever that may bring."

 

James gets a tad emotional at that. 

 

More than a tad.

 

Mycroft stays by his side as he takes an embarrassingly long time to pull himself together, and doesn’t push or pry. Eventually, James looks at him. He wants to talk, he does. It’s hard.

 

Mycroft thinks it better he start.

 

“James-”

 

The phone rings. Mycroft frowns at it and dismisses the call, placing the mobile face-down on the table.

 

“I know perhaps we’ve gotten into things a little quickly. Some might call it rushing into things - and I want you to know I don’t care if we are. So you needn’t apologize for that. I will admit I am guilty of being less practical than I am usually, but I  _ know- _ ”

 

It rings again, and Mycroft hesitates, then glances down. He has a feeling this is bad. He turns the phone over to find several texts from Hastings, and picks up with a deeply sorry look in his eyes. James nods. 

 

The conversation will have to wait.

 

.

 

Mycroft arrives at the office in a sour mood, his request for a day off denied because of some emergency that couldn’t be shared over the phone.

 

Andrea greets him at the door.

 

“We got a hit off your  _ algorithm,” _ she says. 

 

“What percent?” Mycroft asks, trying his  _ utmost _ to not make a face. It doesn’t work, judging by Andrea’s own expression. Good God, they better not have called him in to chase down some false positive.

 

“87 percent,” Andrea says, raising an eyebrow; she’s impressed.

 

“87!” he sputters. “That’s impossible.”

 

He’d explained, when he wrote the program, that anything over 50 was unlikely. It just wasn’t possible to get that kind of  _ certainty _ based off one’s purchase habits and whereabouts and energy consumption and so on. All he had hoped was that something like this could be employed to narrow down searches of needles in a barn full of needles back down into a needle in a haystack. 

 

“You were right, the likelihood of the arms ring being connected somehow to a  _ completely unrelated _ crime by some behind the scenes perpetrator is not at all in the realm of impossible. And cross-referencing all your crazy little datasets,” Andrea says. They approach Hastings, who stands behind the desk with a folder ready to brief him.

 

“Crazy little-!” Mycroft shoves down his indignance. 

 

“Unless your algorithm’s made a mistake?” Andrea asks not-too-innocently, under her breath.

 

“Impossible,” Mycroft grumbles.

 

“Holmes,” Hasting greets. “Nice of you to finally make it.”

 

Mycroft can tell it is going to be an infuriating day.

 

“We’ve a surprisingly likely match, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

 

“Yes, yes, and who is it, someone on the Interpol watch list? A suspected terrorist we’ve yet to pin a crime on?” Mycroft asks, sardonic. “It must be  _ big _ if we’re so eager to prove he’s it, having no evidence.”

 

Hastings smiles tightly, and plucks a photo from the folder to place on the desk.

 

It’s a photo of James.

 

.

 

Despite the long-due heartfelt conversation being cut short and hijacked by a work call, James is feeling much better. By much better compared to before, that is. By normal standards James feels like someone who’s got the flu, cold, and news that he is not, in fact, dying, all at once. Grateful to live another day, but not sure what he’s grateful about yet. 

 

In short, he suspects he is on the road to recovery.

 

He makes the mistake of letting this happy thought buoy him all the way to the office, and carry him through a bout of productivity in which he finally edits those last fifty pages of a research paper he is submitting for peer review. He looks up at the clock only to find that he has plenty of time before lunch, and takes it to speed through the graduate students’ papers, leaving them marked as if they’d been through a battlefield. 

 

It’s not until he finally pauses for a late lunch that it occurs to him. Perhaps with Mycroft by his side, he could do away with the “hobbies.” What need was there for a diversion, when he had no desire to devote attention away from his life any longer? He was perfect happy to pay attention to Mycroft, who was perfectly happy to pay attention to him, and it was going to be fine, it was all going to be fine. 

 

It doesn’t take long for James to audit his illicit activity and determine a plan of action to do away with most of his ongoing projects and otherwise quickly tie up loose ends. He wonders very briefly whether law enforcement would sense an anomaly in crime statistics after his own interference ceases, but the thought goes as quickly as it comes. He could care less about suspicious, he’s so very, very close to just deserting the entire thing wholesale and pretending it’s never happened. There were few enough real ties to him to begin with, that he thinks he may actually get away with it. 

 

But no, if he wants his nice, happy life with Mycroft, with a house big enough for a dog, and breakfasts together, and no unexplainable secrets as all, he wanted to do this properly. He’d tie things up before he left, so at least he would know exactly where he’d left everything, and be sure that he hadn’t left loose ends.

 

It was the least he could do.

 

.

 

The pearlescent tint of James’s happy-worldview-bubble wobbles as he sets foot back into his flat; Mycroft’s in, which is  _ great _ , but Mycroft is sitting stiffly on the sofa deep in thought, which is foreboding.

 

The bubble pops - he  _ knows. _ James isn’t sure how or  _ why _ he even knows, but Mycroft  _ knows, _ and that’s why he looks like he has something terrible to speak, and. God. This is what James had thought would happen all along. Well, he’s right, isn’t he?  Now what? Does he run, or beg?

 

“Mycroft,” James says, feet moving of their own accord. Mycroft shifts on the sofa and James moves to take a seat right next to him. But he freezes in place when he sees the folder in Mycroft’s hand.

 

“James - I - I need to tell you something,” Mycroft says. He sounds nervous and unwilling and - he sounds like he has something to confess, but James is the one who has to confess-

 

Mycroft lays the folder on the table and opens it, and James realizes he hasn’t been listening to what Mycroft is saying.

 

“- thought it better just to show you-”

 

It’s - a case file. Partly redacted, but scanning it James can tell enough. His recent activity, linked together through datasets he hadn’t even realized intelligence would try to link. And - his photo.

 

He opens his mouth - to apologize, to lie, to try to explain himself,  _ anything _ , but nothing comes out.

 

James’s heart is pounding so hard he thinks it is going to fall out. It’s all he can hear. He sways, a bit, and Mycroft reaches out to grab his hands. 

 

“Oh - no, I apologize, now you think the worst.” Mycroft sounds so distressed. That’s unexpected.

 

“I’m sorry,” James finds himself rushing to say. He tries to pull his hands back to no avail. “But it’s over, I promise. I’ve tied up loose ends. I’m out of the business, I swear it. I’ll find something else. I will. I know I can-”

 

Mycroft holds him and he realizes he’s been babbling and - it’s over. Mycroft’s not buying anything he says. But in that case, why isn’t he pushing him away. 

 

The obvious smacks him in the face: What is Mycroft doing with this case file in the first place?

 

James pulls back, slowly, to stare Mycroft in the eye. He looks...guilty.

 

“Actually, I have another idea,” Mycroft starts slowly.

 

.

 

Mycroft replays a dozen contingency plans over and over in his mind the next two weeks as they vet and onboard James Moriarty as an informant to the intelligence services. 

 

He considers leaving the country with James to a no-extradition nation. He toys with the idea of faking their deaths. Of pulling his ultimate-last-resort blackmail card, forcing them to stay their hand. All risky. 

 

And rather unnecessary - James had been all too willing to go along with it, and Mycroft doesn’t need Hastings to tell him this is a textbook red flag. Except Hastings would assume an ulterior motive, a long-con to get into MI5’s operations or whatnot. Mycroft suspects the opposite. He worries he is taking advantage of James by allowing this to go forward.

 

It’s not all bad.

 

The assignment ends up requiring a psychiatric evaluation, which turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Even if Mycroft had managed to persuade James to seek professional help he wouldn’t have felt comfortable divulging the nature of his work.

 

It gets harder before it gets easier, but by Christmas they are more certain than ever what they want from this relationship: ordinary, with all its trappings. Their jobs are insane enough, that they want none of it permeating their domestic lives. 

 

Mycroft introduces James to his family when they visit his parents for Christmas, and he tells James he thinks he’ll like Sherlock. Unfortunately they do not get along right away, but Mycroft has hopes they will eventually.

 

They’re married the day after Christmas. It’s a small affair, but it felt like they’d already had an infinitely long wait. Then they build their home, and let themselves enjoy the caricature of a cozy, domestic life, and both worry incessantly about when this might end. Then they come to their senses and realize if they want to play house, who is going to stop them?

 

.

 

. .

 

James leans against Mycroft, listening as Mycroft explains to his brother and Dr. Watson that he’s had a sordid, criminal past. He pouts, and wants to bury his face against Mycroft and possibly squeeze him until he ran out of air. He wills himself to be a little bit more patient.

 

John blinks, trying to process the story. Sherlock on the other hand looks deceptively tranquil; James thinks he must be seething.

 

“You could have  _ told _ me,” Sherlock bites out.

 

“It’s a matter of national security, you must understand,” Mycroft says with a long-suffering expression. Though, James thinks Mycroft would not have wanted to tell, anyway. James certainly didn’t.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen with a thought.

 

“You had me work his cases!”

 

James gives in to his impatience and wraps his arms around Mycroft, company be damned. He is tired. 

 

“You were a wonderful help, Sherlock,” James says, trying to be nice. “Even if you did need a few nudges and hints along the way, sometimes.”

 

Sherlock does a wonderful impression of a goldfish at that. James yawns. He wants them to go home so he can go to bed. He’s already dealt with  _ terrorists _ today.

 

“Am I just supposed to ignore - this?” Sherlock gestures widely. 

 

James nods solemnly as Mycroft sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Nothing changes, Sherlock. You’re a consulting detective, and any case is fair game. But chasing the Moriarty network won’t get you anywhere, because MI5 has jurisdiction. You’d only run into  _ me _ ,” Mycroft says.

 

“Hang on, isn’t this - I don’t know, a conflict of interest?” John says.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says drily. They wait, but he does not elaborate, the implication being who was going to stop them?

 

Sherlock, apparently having had enough, leaps to his feet and heads for the door without preamble. John stumbles over his goodbyes and chases after him.

 

“Bye Sherlock!” James calls after him. “You’re still coming to dinner next week, yes?”

 

Sherlock slams the door by way of response, and throws his scarf on with a growl.

 

“You have a really weird family,” John tells him.

  
  
  
  



End file.
